


DTRT

by Croik



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/pseuds/Croik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finishing a routine number, Reese and Finch are confronted by a gun-wielding stranger who, for once, is not after the Man in a Suit, but the little bird behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DTRT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wyomingnot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyomingnot/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻譯] DTRT 為所應為](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166913) by [masayosi661](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masayosi661/pseuds/masayosi661)



> DTRT is an older hacker acronym that stands for "do the right thing."

Another number, another life saved. There was a time when Finch thought that with so many it would eventually become routine, but that's not the case. As much as he has adapted to this new and bizarre way of life, he knows he'll never be used to it. The guns, the innocent lives, the sharp hiss of Reese's breath in his ear--always in his ear, so close he's sometimes convinced he can feel it, but at the same time too far for him to be of any use. These days he rarely dreams, but when he does the worst of them are always a sudden silence from Reese's audio feed.

Even now, they're walking side by side as their latest number departs in a taxi. They're so close that their arms brush with every step. Finch can see Reese's breath puff in the November air, but he can't hear it, and ridiculous as it seems it makes him nervous.

"Did you really think I wouldn't come for you?" asks Reese.

Finch casts him a sideways glance. "You're still thinking about that?"

Reese shrugs slightly, which means he's been thinking about it a lot. "I just had thought we were past that kind of thinking."

"Which kind of thinking?" asks Finch, because he's honestly not sure what Reese means. A little smirk plays at his lips. "Are you referring to my foolish confidence that you could handle this 'occupation' without my help?"

"More that you think I would want to."

That makes Finch pause. It takes him a moment to arrange his tone into what he hopes sounds like casual curiosity. "You wouldn't?"

"I might manage it for a while," says Reese, his own voice a strange mix of wistful and bitter that Finch has a hard time identifying. "If I had no other choice. But I wouldn't be here if not for you--a dozen times over, in fact. I doubt I'd last a week on my own."

"I suppose I should be flattered you think so much of my support," says Finch, but he isn't flattered. In fact, he's a little bit terrified, and he glances away. They pass a small electronics shop, a bakery. There's a café on the corner. "Would you care to stop for a drink?"

Thankfully, Reese can always be counted on to honor a change of subjects. "If you don't mind running in," he says. He gives Bear's leash a shake. The dog has been quiet, and Finch had forgotten it was even there. "We'll wait for you here."

"Then I'll get you the usual, unless you're in the mood for variety."

Reese smiles. He's been doing that more and more often lately. "Surprise me."

Finch thinks it will take more than a latte to surprise John Reese, but he accepts the challenge and slips inside. Tonight was a simple number. There's no reason to let somber thoughts put either of them in a sour mood.

It's almost closing time, but there are still a handful of customers in the booths. Finch places his order and while he waits he notices a man watching him from under the hood of his black jacket. Their eyes meet, and Finch offers a polite smile, which the man returns before turning his attention to his smart phone. It's a trivial exchange but it makes Finch nervous, and as soon as his order is ready he hurries outside.

Reese accepts his drink and takes a sip. His brow furrows, which Finch is happy to assume as a victory. "Is that... _banana_?"

Finch smiles, but then a soft chime from the door behind him catches his attention. He manages not to look back. "Are you surprised?" he asks.

A rise of Reese's eyebrows affirm as much. "It's not bad," he says as they start down the sidewalk once more. "A little sweet, maybe. Thanks, Finch."

Finch sips his tea. He can hear footsteps behind them, and he still controls the urge to look back but he knows it's the man from the café. Photos scroll past his eyelids like images on his monitor as he tries to remember if he's seen the man before. Thick eyebrows, heavy bottom lip. Instinct tells him the man is familiar but he can't place him.

"Did you make a friend in there?" asks Reese.

Of course Reese noticed. Finch glances up and down the street, trying to see the world as Reese sees it: in this case, as possible avenues of escape. There are still a fair number of people out on the streets and he makes eye contact with a man leaning against a nearby wall. The man recognizes him. It shouldn't be possible.

"Something is very wrong," Finch says under his breath.

Reese takes him by the elbow. It puts Finch's heart in his ears. "Keep walking. The car's just up ahead."

It's only a few yards away, but they don't make it. The stranger behind them stops walking and calls out, "Hey, Finch!"

Finch turns. He sees the barrel of a gun and his brain goes completely white. Reese's body crashes into his, broad and powerful and shoving him up against the glass of a storefront window. The gun fires and he can't breathe. Screams echo down the streets, almost drowning out Bear's vicious barking and a rush of fleeing footsteps. He can smell the gunshot residue, but then it's masked by Reese's breath close to his face as he asks, his voice an urgent rasp, "Are you hit?"

For a split second Finch isn't sure; he feels numb and he can barely process the words. He tries to shake his head but only shudders. "No."

"Get in the car," says Reese. "Get out of here."

And then Reese is gone, racing down the sidewalk after the gunman and the dog and Finch has no idea what's just happened.

He just stands there for a long moment. The street lamps blur on the sidewalk which is now all but empty of pedestrians. He has a clear path to the car but he can't for the life of him get his feet to move. He can't do much of anything, in fact. He can't even get in a full breath. He just stands there staring down at their spilled beverage cups, tea and latte mixing in the cracks.

"Finch, huh."

It's the man that was leaning against the wall a moment ago--the one that recognized him. Finch knows before he lifts his eyes, and he would congratulate himself on his Reese-like presence of mind if not for the fist that slams into his jaw a moment later. The knuckles rake his bottom lip across his teeth and he tastes blood, and then his knees buckle and he's tasting concrete. His glasses scatter away. He's so shocked that the pain flaring up and down his spine feels far away, like he's having an out-of-body experience. It makes no sense. A pair of strangers calling him _Finch_ is trying to kill him and _where the hell is Reese_?

A foot rushes at him. Finch instinctually raises his arm and the toe of a boot catches him in the elbow, sending a ripple of pain from his funny bone that leaves him breathless and rattles his nervous system loose. He tries to curl up but he's not prepared for this, and a second kick hits him full in the stomach. Bile rises up the back of his throat. He braces himself for a third, but instead two pairs of rough hands grab at his jacket. There are two of them and they're dragging him toward the curb--oh God they're taking him--and Finch grabs at the sidewalk, a trash can, anything to try and stop them. 

He's saved by the rise of a nearby police siren. Or, at least, he thinks so at first. The men stop pulling at him and straighten up, but they don't take off running. It's Bear that does that. Finch never thought it was possible to hear _hate_ in an animal until Bear streaks past him, fast on the heels of his fleeing attackers. He doesn't like it, and he cries out, fumbling over the few Dutch commands he knows until Bear returns to his side. Like a wounded pup he cowers in Bear's shadow until someone touches his back.

It's Reese. He can tell by the sound of heavy breathing in his ear. Reese hauls him to his feet as if he weighs nothing and half drags, half carries him to the safety of their waiting car.

"Do you need a doctor?" Reese asks as he opens the back door. He orders Bear inside.

"No," Finch says, not because he really knows; going to a doctor requires covers and stories and _thinking_ , and he can't do any of that right now. "I'm all right."

He sinks into the back seat. Bear puts his head in his lap, and it's comforting, but it still gives Finch a chill to feel the fur sticking up along his back as he bristles with canine frustration. He closes his eyes, swaying nauseously against the door as Reese drives them swiftly away. The cop car is still close, but Reese has perfected the art of escape, and he knows just how to speed without looking suspicious, somehow. The siren is quickly gone.

When Finch opens his eyes again, they're at the library. He can't remember taking a breath the entire way there. He manages a few raspy intakes as Reese ushers him inside, through a side door and into one of the sitting rooms on the first floor they almost never use. Reese jerks a sheet off the largest sofa, sending clouds of choking dust into the air, and Finch has to close his eyes against the stinging particles.

"Sit," says Reese, and Finch does, sinking into the lumpy cushions. 

A light flickers on nearby--a rusty lamp with a bare bulb--but it doesn't manage to illuminate anything. Finch squints into the blur of darkness around them. "I can't see," he wheezes.

"You're not wearing your glasses," says Reese. He touches Finch's face, gently tilting his chin up and brushing his fingertips over the tender bruises around his mouth. "Just relax. We're safe."

Finch winces when Reese's calloused fingers brush his split lip. "Where are my glasses?"

"They were smashed." Reese pulls the pocket square out of Finch's pocket and winds it up. "Do you have spares somewhere in here?" He presses it to Finch's face and lifts Finch's hand to hold it there, which Finch manages to do even though his elbow is still throbbing. "Just sit tight; I'll be right back."

"Wait." Finch reaches for him, but Reese is already moving away. "You didn't leave them there, did you?"

"Don't worry about that now." He's leaving the room. "Stay put."

"John--" Finch listens to the clap of Reese's shoes on the stairs and feels a jolt of panic. It's as if the wiring in his skull has become tangled: the room is black and unfamiliar, and he's alone, and three men calling him _Finch_ just tried to kill him. Not Reese--him. They know his name and what he looks like, maybe even where he's gone, and the fear of discovery pulses around him like a suffocating presence. Before he's sure what he's doing, he's on his feet and moving toward the exit. "Bear?"

Bear is already beside him. When Finch reaches his hand down, Bear licks his fingers. Usually it helps, but with a fright Finch realizes he can smell blood. He can't help but wonder if Bear killed the man with the gun, sinking his canine canines into a pulsing jugular. It's a terrifying thought even if done in his defense, and his breath comes faster as he reaches the room's only doorway.

Reese bounds back down the stairs. He grunts. "I told you to wait."

"I can't stay here," says Finch, but when Reese takes him by the arm, he's too weak to offer any manner of protest. "How could you leave them there? _They_ have them, now."

"Your glasses?" Reese sighs in exasperation. "They already know you by name, Harold. Your glasses aren't going to give then anything." He leads Finch back into the room and sits him down on the sofa.

Finch shudders. "How can they know me?" His brain fires in fits and starts and he can't remember the men's faces, only the feeling of their hands seizing around his clothing. Reese touches his shoulder and he jumps. "I don't use 'Finch' except with you. Who were they?"

"I don't know." There's something sharp and a little manic in Reese's voice and that doesn't help Finch's concern any. "Just hold still."

Reese is gone for a moment, and when he returns it's to press a cool, wet cloth to Finch's mouth. He wipes the blood away but Finch can still taste its coppery tang on the back of his tongue. It's seeping into his lungs, he knows it. Everything around him is suddenly lethal. He looks for escape routes but even Reese is little more than a smear. "I can't see."

"I know, I know. I'll find your spares in a minute."

"I can't _see_ ," Finch says again. He reaches out and finds the lapel of Reese's jacket, gripping it like a life preserver. "I can't stay here. We can't--we have to--"

"Hey." Reese covers Finch's hand with his. "Harold." His other hand squeezes Finch's shoulder. "You need to calm down," he says, but Finch can hear the strain beneath his words. "Can you hear me?"

"I can't stay here." Finch pulls at him but he's too weak to stand. "They'll come back--she's already--"

"Harold!" Reese touches his cheeks. "Look at me," he orders. "Right now."

Finch tries. Shame twists in his gut, and he uses it, drawing Reese's face into as much focus as his weary eyes can unaided. He can just barely make out Reese's furrowed brows and concerned frown. "I'm all right," he says, because he doesn't like Reese looking at him that way.

"No, you're not. You're hyperventilating."

"I can't help it," says Finch, and only after the words are out does he realize they're true. He draws himself up and tries to breathe normally, but his chest clenches against the air--the air is full of blood. He doesn't want it in him. "I can't breathe," he says, shaking. The more he tries to fight his instinct the worse it gets, until he's frantic under Reese's hands. "I can't _breathe_."

"Yes you can," says Reese. "You _are_ breathing. But you need to calm down." Reese pushes on Finch's chest, urging him to lie down. "It wasn't _her_ , Harold. You know she doesn't work this way. You're safe here."

Finch stretches out awkwardly on the sofa. It's lumpy and he can feel his spine aligning poorly, but there's nothing to do about it now. He repeats Reese's words in his mind over and over, _it wasn't her, it wasn't her_ , but that only makes him think about _her_ , and he's getting dizzy. "John." He reaches blindly into the space above him. "I can't--"

"Shh." Reese loosens Finch's tie and then flicks open the first several buttons of Finch's shirt. He presses his wide, warm hand flat against Finch's chest. "Don't try to talk," he says, his rough voice so low and so close he might as well be speaking through their same old earpieces. "Just listen to me. I've got you." His other hand flits over Finch's temple, a clumsy attempt at a comforting gesture. "We're going to take a deep breath together, all right? One, two..."

Reese takes in a deep breath, at the same time drawing his hand down Finch's chest as if trying to pull the air into his lungs. Finch struggles to match him, doing everything he can not to think about the taste of blood still so heavy in his throat. All his focus latches onto Reese's hand and the power it holds over him, compelling him into a long, slow intake of oxygen. When Reese exhales, so does he.

"Good," says Reese, and that tiny reassurance means everything. "Again. Open your eyes--watch me. You're fine."

"I still can't see," Finch wheezes, but he opens his eyes anyway. Reese is still a blur, but it doesn't matter, because then Reese is encouraging him into another slow breath. It works, and with almost agonizing patience Reese is able to lead Finch through several more, until the world stops spinning and Finch can feel his fingertips again.

Reese continues to rub Finch's chest even after he's breathing easily on his own. "Is that better?" he asks seriously.

Finch swallows. The return of his clarity brings with it the return of his shame. He feels tiny and impotent shivering on the sofa. Bear is whimpering nearby and he's half tempted to echo. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Don't." Reese slides Finch's tie all the way off and sets it aside. "It's not your fault. I've been there, too, so be honest with me: are you all right?"

Finch curls and uncurls his fingers. He stretches his sore legs and feels out the bruises to his elbow and ribs. Nothing broken. Nothing serious. "I think so," he says.

"Are you _sure_?"

"I'm...yes." Finch takes in another deep breath and feels gravity righting itself beneath his back. "I'm all right."

Reese watches him for a long moment in silence before leaning back. He flicks open another few buttons and feels out Finch's ribs for himself, his hot fingers sliding beneath Finch's undershirt. "Did you recognize any of those men?" His voice is suddenly cutting.

"No." Finch closes his eyes and does a better job of remembering than before, but he still can't place any of his attackers. "One of them was in the café. He was texting someone." He flinches. "Is he alive?"

Reese stands up. "Stay put. I'll get you some water." He turns to leave.

Something cold seizes Finch by the throat. "Is he alive?"

"For now." Reese slips out.

In his absence, the room grows colder. Finch buttons his shirt back up but doesn't bother with the tie. When Bear pads closer he's rewarded with a scratch behind the ears, but Finch can't bring himself to say any words of praise. He's unspeakably glad that he wasn't forced to watch whatever happened.

"It wasn't her," he says instead, willing himself to believe it. "It wasn't."

Reese returns with a bottled water and spare glasses. "I don't care what time it is," he says as he hands the items off to Finch, and it takes Finch a moment to realize that he's speaking to someone on the phone. "I need you down there. White perp in his early thirties, black hair, whiskers. He's got a serious animal bite wound on his left arm."

Finch rubs the glasses on his shirt and then slips them on. Everything becomes a little safer. "Who are you talking to?"

"That's not my problem," Reese snaps into the phone. He only snaps like that at Detective Fusco. "Whatever you tell them, just keep him there. I'm on my way."

He hangs up and looks at Finch. His eyes are wide and solid in the dark of the empty room, and for a moment he might as well be someone else. Something else. "Stay here," he says, his voice straining like a loaded bear trap. "Keep the dog close. I'll be back soon."

It's getting hard to breathe again. "What are you doing to do?" asks Finch.

"I'm going to find out who they are, and why they're after you." He hesitates. "Do you want me to call Carter? I can take you somewhere she'll be able to look after you."

"No," Finch says quickly. Moments ago he couldn't bear the thought of staying in the library, a sitting duck, a helpless invalid, but suddenly the thought of leaving threatens him with panic again. "I'm all right."

"All right." Reese stands still for a moment--perfectly still--and then bends down, brushing the backs of his knuckles against Finch's temple in that same, well-intentioned gesture. "Call if you need me." His eyes pinch at their corners and then he strides swiftly from the room. Finch listens to him all the way out.

The library falls quiet. Only dulled city noise filters through the small, covered windows, and Finch reaches out so that a nudge of Bear's nose will reassure him he's not alone. "It wasn't her," he says, one more time, and then with a deep breath he sits up.

Blood rushes to his head and leaves him dizzy, but once it's passed he feels clearer than ever. His brain reboots and he remembers all over again the man in the café, his companion against the wall. There were three, but he can't recall anything of that third stranger other than the rough hands in his coat.

"Finch," he says, loudly, as if the sound of his own voice will shock him into movement. It works; he makes it to his feet. "They knew me as _Finch_." Bear nudges his hand, so Finch gives him a reassuring pat and heads for the door. "Not one of my other aliases." He purses his lips and hobbles to the stairs. They look taller than ever, but he takes them one step at a time. "Who knows me as Finch..."

Detective Fusco knows him as Finch. So does Carter. He knows neither of them would sell him out. Doesn't he? He swallows and takes one step at a time. His driver, Mr. Mason, knows him as Mr. Finch, but he's paid too well to sell out. None of his residences are in the name of Finch, none of his bank accounts. Zoe knows him as Harold Finch, but she has very little to gain from assassination. _She_ knows him as Harold. She could have learned "Finch" anywhere but Reese was right, she doesn't work like this.

"It's not her," Finch says again. When he grips the banister, his elbow aches.

Some people know him as "Harold." Corrupt pharmaceutical company ex-presidents, identity-thieving blondes, old co-workers. But they know the Crow, the Crane, the Partridge, sometimes even the Wren. Will knows him as Harold Wren. But Finch is so finite; Finch is a small, flittering thing that peers through the cracks. Finch is the identity he created specifically for this mission, for _Reese_. Finch is his super hero title, the whisper in his ear. It is the essence of what he has become. Finch is his jellicle name. 

Not even Grace knows Harold Finch.

Finch reaches the top of the stairs. His ribs sting and he has to take a moment to breathe slowly, in and out, before he's able to continue on. He hasn't been careful enough. Every time Reese calls him Finch in public, in front of a number, he's been giving them away. The man in the café saw his face and didn't react--he called _Hey, Finch!_ to see if his target would respond. He needed confirmation. Who the hell is he? Who knows _Finch_ without the face?

Finch sits down at his computer, and from the moment his fingertips brush the keys, he feels stronger. The pain fades from his face, and elbow, and ribs, and he is powerful. He brushes aside ethics for the moment and hacks directly into the Live Crime Center, finding the security footage of the encounter and then the police communication surrounding it. As he had caught from Reese's brief phone conversation, the original assailant has been taken to a nearby hospital to be treated for the wounds inflicted by Bear. Finch is grateful that didn't make it to the security cameras. All he can see is Bear, a grainy flash of black and gray, streaking after the fleeing man into an ally with Reese close behind. He wonders if Reese was barking, too.

Finch dials Detective Fusco before his imagination can get ahead of him.

"All right, already, I'm on my way," Fusco grunts into the phone after the first ring. "I got the message."

"Is our friend there with you?" Finch asks, and he's proud of himself that he sounds totally normal.

"What, you mean you don't know? Thought you knew _everything_."

Finch calls up the window tracking Reese's phone. He must have taken the car because he's nearly at the hospital already. Finch makes sure their audio isn't connected before asking, "Detective, when you collected your research on me, did you share it with anyone other than our associate?"

Fusco hesitates awkwardly. "Uh...um, what?"

"This isn't a reprimand, Detective," says Finch. "We'll save that for later. Right now I just need to know if anyone else had access to that intel you were able to gather on me, such as it was."

"Well, I." Fusco grumbles some manner of cuss under his breath. "Look, it wasn't my idea. But uh, no. Of course not. Don't you think Mr. Happy would'a skinned me if I did?"

"Among other things, I'm sure." Finch doesn't like talking about Reese this way. He jokes sometimes about his partner's lethality, but tonight, there's no humor to be found in it. "Thank you, Detective Fusco."

"What is this about, anyway?" asks Fusco, because sometimes he forgets how this works. "What'd this perp do, other than almost become dog meat?"

Finch hesitates awkwardly, too. He has his finger over the escape key before he remembers moving, but he doesn't press it. He needs answers as quickly as possible. "He almost became a murderer," he says, slowly. "He took a shot at me, earlier."

"A shot at _you_?"

"And he wasn't alone." Finch plays through the street footage of the sidewalk where the two men assaulted him. They're dressed in hoodies, their faces disguised. He imagines little white boxes popping up around their heads, social security numbers tacked on. The Machine already knows who these men are and why they were trying to kill him, and not for the first time, he's desperately tempted to call up a login window.

"We were attacked by three men," Finch continues. "I'm fairly certain they were targeting _me_ , not our friend. I'm sending you the pictures I do have of the two that escaped, but there's not much to go on." Finch isolates the best frame of the two men from the video feed and sends it to Fusco's phone. "I need to know who these men are and what they want with me as soon as possible."

Fusco's voice lowers a pitch. "You think they're working for that crazy chick from before?"

"No. It's not her." Finch hesitates again. "Please stay in contact, Detective. I don't like the feel of this."

"Yeah, sure. Sure." For all that Fusco is a stubborn mutt, he sure sounds like he understands what Finch really means. "I'll let you know when I have something." He snorts. "Actually, I'll just keep my phone on and you can hear it all yourself."

"Thank you, Detective." Finch hangs up and then calls Reese. "Mr. Reese?"

"Everything all right?"

Reese's breath is in his ear again. It sets Finch's lungs right. "Yes, fine. I see you've reached the hospital. Detective Fusco is just behind you."

Reese is a blip on the screen. Finch watches him slip into the hospital, and as soon as Reese's phone detects the internal Wi-Fi network, he's able to hack the system through it. "Male patient recently admitted with dog bite wounds," says Finch absently. "No name given. He's been taken to examination room four. It looks as though a request for surgery has been entered as well."

Reese's cursor moves across the screen the equivalent of a few hallways. "Cops are here," says Reese. "Two of them on guard outside the door."

Finch notices a second cursor in the parking lot. "Detective Fusco's arrived. Let him handle it."

"I still have a badge. They won't tell me no."

There's that edge in his voice again. Reese is on the verge of violence. "You're in a crowded hospital," Finch reminds him. "Just wait a minute, and Fusco will be there."

This time, Finch is sure he feels Reese's hackles rise, just like Bear's. But he waits.

Fusco catches up to them, and after assuring Reese that he knows what the hell he's doing, he approaches the officers. One of them--Officer Casey, as Finch overhears--recognizes him and they small talk for a minute before getting down to business. Finch can _feel_ Reese pacing in a nearby hallway. At last Officer Casey gives Fusco the facts, describing the bare eye-witness accounts of the shooting and aftermath. No one really knows what happened and the perp isn't talking.

"Let me give it a shot," says Fusco. "I got a way with people."

Casey laughs, and she lets him in.

Finch leans forward to listen. He tries to envision the scene: the man with the black whiskers sitting on a hospital bed, his arm covered and stabilized until the surgery room is ready. Before Reese, his imagination was limited to code and schematic. Now, he can't put it to rest. Every night he sits in this library and he imagines Reese prowling through alleys and through thugs, he imagines the numbers as little printed photographs tacked to otherwise faceless bodies. Sometimes it's as close as he can get to being at Reese's side, just sitting there with Bear at his computer, picturing. He's getting almost too good at it.

"The hell are you?" says the shooter, but there's a tick in his voice, something that makes it not quite a question.

"Detective Fusco, homicide." Fusco is always exceedingly easy to picture, the way he shoves his fists in his pockets, rocks back on his heels to look taller. "Heard you almost got yourself on my radar tonight."

" _You're_ Fusco," the man repeats, and Finch's hunch is confirmed: this stranger recognizes Fusco, at least. "You gotta get a message to Simmons."

Finch feels his face go white. Simmons. He can't believe it didn't even occur to him.

"HR," Reese hisses in his ear. "It's them after all."

"Wait." Finch closes his eyes and recalls that evening in the diner. Facing down Simmons wasn't one of his brighter moments, but he was sharp, then. He's sure he was at his best. He didn't introduce himself with any kind of alias let alone _Finch_. "Something isn't right," he says. "Yes, HR is aware of me, but--"

"What makes you think I wanna do that for you?" says Fusco, and Finch quiets himself to hear. "I'm not his errand boy."

"That's not what I hear," says the stranger.

Fusco grumbles, and Finch wishes he was in his ear so he could tell him to get the information any way he can. Thankfully, Fusco seems to hear him anyway. "What's the message?"

"To get down here and get me the hell out of this," he snaps. "I was close--I almost had him. Next time I won't miss."

Finch thinks he might be sick. He looks around for Bear, and it's a comfort to find him close by. "John?"

"I hear them."

"Who?" asks Fusco. The phone in his pocket shifts. "Who were you after?"

Finch is breathless in the silence. "Tell Simmons it's Keller," says the shooter. "I need him down here."

Fusco seems to weigh his options a moment and then says, "I'll see what I can do."

He steps out and tells Officer Casey he's ducking out to make a call--bad reception. He makes it to the next hall and then there's another, sharper rustle of clothing, as the two cursors blinking on Finch's screen collide into one. 

"Who is Keller?" Reese demands.

"I dunno. Will you get off me? We're in the open."

"If he's asking for Simmons, he must be a cop," says Reese at the same time as Finch starts calling up police personnel files. "So who is he?"

"I don't know every cop in the city, all right? He might not even be a cop--HR has crooks in their pocket, too."

Finch clicks through faces: Officer Brandon Keller, Officer Alicia Keller, Lieutenant Jason Keller. None of them look familiar and he's starting to feel sick to his stomach. "Simmons has seen my face," he says. "I would be surprised if he hasn't connected me to you, John, and we know he's not a fan of yours. But." He takes in a long breath. "That doesn't explain those men calling me _Finch_. Not many people know that name."

There's a long pause on the other end. Finch can hear Reese breathing, slowly, in and out. When Reese speaks, his voice is tight and controlled like his hand wrapped around the handle of a gun. "Elias knows you as Finch."

The realization hits Finch so hard he sees stars. He leans back in his chair. It's not that he's afraid--he's confused. He thinks immediately to the last time he saw Carl Elias, sitting in an orange prison jumper with his elbows against the table. He pictures Elias' hand moving across the board to tip his king over, and he shakes his head.

"Elias has no reason to kill me," says Finch, even though he's trying to think of a reason--to think of anything useful at the moment. "And if he did, he has better men he could send." Still, he curls his fingers over the keyboard and goes to work.

"Hey," says Fusco sharply. "Where are you going?"

Finch's eyes leap to the screen where Reese's cursor is heading back for the room. "John?" he says in warning.

"Stay put," Reese says, with a bite that Finch knows is meant for Fusco, not him. "Make the call to Simmons. I want to know what he knows."

"If I call him here, and you ambush him, what's that going to do to me?" Fusco protests. "He'll think that I--"

"If I end up ambushing him, you won't have to worry about what he thinks anymore."

"John," Finch says again, louder. "Please don't do anything rash."

Reese's cursor stops at the corner just before Keller's room. "Whatever's happening, we have to put an end to it _right now_ ," he whispers. "I'm not going to let them get away with what they did to you."

"I don't want you attacking police officers in a crowded hospital," Finch insists. His heart rate is quickening, and he thinks of Reese's hand, strong and warm, calming him with a slow massage to his aching chest. "Or Simmons. We still don't know who he's really working for."

"Harold." This time the bite is meant for him. "You said before that you didn't expect me to come after you."

A knot ties itself in Finch's throat. "Now really isn't the time--"

"This is me coming after you," Reese continues. "So please just trust me."

Finch swallows, but his mouth is dry and his stomach hollow, sticking to his ribs. He takes a breath but he doesn't know what to say. "I understand," he says, though he's not certain he does. Maybe he just wants to pretend that he doesn't know what Reese is about to do. "But you have to trust me, too." He curls forward, arms on the desk as he struggles not to recall a painful memory. "Your safety is just as important to me, Mr. Reese. Be careful."

"I will."

Finch has to switch focus then, because Fusco has moved to the front of the building and is dialing Simmons. He picks up on the third ring, and his rough voice gives Finch a chill. "I don't have time for you now, Lionel."

"And you think I do?" Fusco retorts. "Listen, I've got one of your boys laid up at Bellevue asking for you. You know a Keller?"

Simmons heaves a sigh of irritated recognition. "Keller. Did he get his kneecaps shot out or what?"

Finch grinds his teeth, but he keeps quiet even if there's no chance of him being heard. "So," says Fusco, "that mean you sent him after our guy in the suit? A punk like that against ex-Special Forces? HR must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel."

"He's not HR," Simmons says immediately, offended. "He's a bottom-feeder trying to make a name for himself. He said he had information I didn't and was going to make good. Not sounding like he was honest with me, and you know how I hate that."

Finch's phone rings, but he ignores it for the moment. He's hacking into Simmon's cell phone company in hopes of finding a recipient named Keller among his recent calls. It's slow work and it keeps his mind occupied, so that he's not thinking about what Reese might be doing. The cursor is on the move. 

"Guess this means you're not dragging your ass out here."

"You watch your mouth with me, Lionel. If you like that piece of shit so much, bail him out yourself."

Simmons hangs up. Finch grimaces in frustration--nothing to go on. But his investigation into Simmons' phone records yields results: calls received from a Martin Keller four days earlier. "John, did you hear that?" he asks. "I think I have a name--Martin Keller. He works for a courier company, lives on the west side. He has a concealed weapon permit. Possibly a record."

He reaches to call Fusco back and realizes that the call he ignored earlier came with a message. When he plays it back, a mix of computerized voices recites, "Health: Charlie, Romeo; U.S. History: Mike, India; Psychiatry: Oscar, Tango."

A number. Finch doesn't have to look it up because he recognizes it immediately, and fresh apprehension surges through him. For a moment his sight flares white. "John, where are you?" he asks, unable to keep the anxiety out of his tone. He calls up the window that should have been displaying Reese's cursor and finds "signal lost" blinking back at him. He didn't notice when he stopped being able to hear Reese's breath and it honestly frightens him that he could be so careless at a time like this.

Finch calls Fusco back. As soon as he hears the connection go through he's asking, "Where is John?"

"Huh? Oh, right. Dunno." Fusco's cursor is, at least, still on the map, and Finch watches impatiently as it moves back through the hospital. "Still keeping eyes on our perp, isn't he? Did you catch all that with Simmons?"

"You need to find him, right now," says Finch. 

"Why, what's wrong this time?"

Finch comes very close to admitting the truth. He almost has to bite his lip to keep from saying it: it's not just a number, it's a number that was meant to be redacted from the system--it's _Reese's_ number. And he knows exactly what it means. "He's going to kill Mr. Keller," he says, as evenly as he's able, which isn't very even at all.

The cursor stops. "Whoa, wait, I'm not getting in the middle of that."

"Detective--"

"Finch," says Reese through the com, suddenly close and almost tangible again. "I'm right here."

Finch wants it to reassure him, but his neck is still tight with throbbing stress, because The Machine has given him Reese and The Machine is never wrong. _Why now?_ and _What is it seeing?_ cycle through his brain but suddenly his imagination is no help at all. "I'm not getting a signal from the GPS in your phone," Finch says, again struggling ineffectively for calm. "Where are you?"

"You said his name is Martin Keller?" In the background, a car trunk slams shut.

"Yes, but..." Finch swallows. "Just wait. Tell me what's happening."

"I'm going to take care of it," Reese says resolutely. "You don't need to be here for this, even if it's just listening in."

"But Mr. Reese--"

"Look after him for me, Lionel. I'll be in touch."

And then before either man can reply, Reese hangs up.

Finch is sitting very still in his chair, not knowing what to do, when Detective Fusco suddenly curses. Finch can hear him go through a door followed by shuffling fabric. "Officer Casey and her partner are out cold in Keller's room," Fusco reports after a minute, and Finch closes his eyes. "The perp's gone."

"Any sign of where they went?" Finch asks even knowing there won't be.

"Nothing. God damn it, I have to call this in."

"Wait. Just until I--"

"This is too far," Fusco interrupts angrily. "These are good honest cops--I'm calling it in."

Fusco hangs up on Finch, but Finch can still hear him as he yanks on the room's emergency pull cord and then calls in two officers down. Finch knows there's almost no chance of Reese getting caught; he was already outside the building, driving Martin Keller to God only knows where. Somewhere private where a man can have information beaten out of him and then be disposed of without a fuss.

Finch pushes his glasses back and rubs his eyes with both hands. He doesn't want this. If he lets Reese go it won't be the first time, but that doesn't make it any easier. There should be a better way. It's his job to think of options and contingencies. Reese looks to him for those things. It's the secret he sometimes lets himself forget--Reese _depends_ on him. It's the reason Reese came after him. Because Reese was something else, once, and in the back of his mind Finch knows how easy it would be for Reese to become that again. He knows what it would do to both of them if he did.

Or maybe Finch just doesn't want to be the reason for someone's death, even a bottom-feeding gun-for-hire like Keller.

Finch calls Detective Fusco back, but Fusco doesn't answer. He's halfway through hacking into the hospital's security camera footage when Fusco calls back after all. Fusco's voice is tight, still angry, but in some ways he's more acclimated to Reese's ways than Finch is, and he'll be over it soon.

"Your boy went out the back," he says. "Sped off in a black car with Keller in the trunk. Camera couldn't make out the plates. They were headed south."

"Thank you, Detective," says Finch.

Fusco grunts uncomfortably. "You got a bead on him? Still not sure I want to be in the thick of this one."

"No, Detective Fusco, you've done enough. But whatever else you can find out about Keller and his two accomplices would be much appreciated. Thank you."

"You're welcome," says Fusco, sounding a little mystified. He hangs up.

Finch goes back to work. There's a GPS tracker on Reese's car, but when he does a search for it, he finds it parked outside the hospital. So, there's grand theft auto for tonight. He considers finishing his hunt for the hospital security footage but he's pretty sure Fusco's already told him everything he can get. South. Reese could be headed for the waterfront, for a motel, for one of their safe-houses. There are plenty of places where Reese can go. Finch could go down to the scene and chase down each intersection one camera at a time in an effort to at least get a better sense of which option Reese has taken, but it'll take time, and the thought of standing out in open street makes him nauseous. There's no time and he can't do it anyway.

Finch's breath is coming fast again. It's ridiculous. He watched Reese speed Andrew Benton off into the dark. He waited for three days while Reese spirited a US Marshall to Mexico and came back alone. He trusts Reese and if these strangers are a threat there may be no other way to neutralize them that will guarantee their operation. The numbers mean more.

Finch tells himself this several more times, but all he can think about are Reese's warm hands flitting over his temple, and a taste of blood.

"Locate asset John Reese," Finch says into the air.

For a long, tense moment, nothing happens, and Finch feels as if he's just been saved from himself. He's panicking again and there's no reason to risk everything they've worked for on a moment like this. It's not as if he's fighting for John Reese's soul. That battle isn't up to him. But in the dark of the library, without even a quiet breath in his ear to reassure him, Finch feels that the world is an ugly little thing, and maybe The Machine hasn't given him Reese's number for the reason he thought.

And then something happens that has never happened before.

A window pops up on Finch's screen. It's a generic dialogue box, without any requests for identity verification or other threat assessments that Finch is used to. It reads:

NATURE OF INQUIRY

Finch stares. Part of him had hoped this wouldn't work, but there's no mistaking the simple, unhurried efficiency of his creation. A million ears are listening. So he says it again. "Locate asset John Reese."

The text scrolls up and is replaced by:

ASSET LOCATION IRRELEVANT.

Bear senses Finch's distress and comes closer. Finch ignores him. His eyes are locked on the screen and the impossible message of defiance. This isn't his Machine-- _it's her, it's her_ , his mind bleats, over and over like an old spool printer. But no, this isn't her at all. _She_ has style and bravado, and she's good enough that she doesn't need to try and trick him this way. She would just come for him while Reese is gone.

Finch wipes sweat off his brow and tries typing in the command, to the same results. "What is going on?" he says under his breath. He knew from the first moment he stepped into that café that something was very wrong, but he'd never thought he would become Chicken Little, cowering under the collapse of the world. "Is he... What is the current status of asset John Reese?"

STATUS: ENGAGED. THREAT LEVEL: MINIMAL. 

"Asset's location," Finch orders one more time.

PLEASE STATE THE INTENTION OF "LOCATION" QUERY.

Finch grinds his teeth. He can't stay connected like this. He should have never breached The Machine in the first place, even with something so simple as a few desperate words. He knows what Reese would think and say if he knew. All those times this beast could have helped them, saved them and the lives they've devoted themselves too--Finch has known better all this time than to go for it to help when the cost could be so great. And now, in a time when he betrays his integrity and Reese's trust to call on it, it refuses him. Maybe he's made it too well after all.

"Just tell me where he is!" Finch snaps. 

The monitor is blank for a moment, and then it reads:

ADMIN INTERFERENCE IS NOT RECOMMENDED AT THIS TIME.

"Interference?" It takes Finch a split second to understand the implication of what he's seeing, and he blanches, slowly falling back in his chair. "You don't want to tell me because you know I'll go after him," he says, stunned. "You're _protecting_ me."

The window scrolls.

ADMIN'S CURRENT THREAT STATUS: MINIMAL  
MAINTAINING ADMIN'S CURRENT THREAT STATUS IS PRIORITY

"No," Finch says automatically. "No, we've been through this. My safety is not priority."

DEFINE PRIORITY.

"The numbers are priority--you know this." Finch leans forward, agitated and frustrated. "Like the number you gave me just now. Your programming does not include being a baby-sitter for me."

The Machine doesn't reply for another moment, as if it's being...thoughtful. Then in reports:

CONTINUITY OF MISSION OPERATIONS IS PRIORITY  
ABSENCE OF ADMIN CREATES CONTINUITY ERROR  
CONTINGENCY ASSET: REESE, JOHN, NOT EFFECTIVE IN ABSENCE OF ADMIN  
CONTINUITY OF MISSION OPERATIONS CONTINGENT ON PRESENCE OF ADMIN  
MAINTAINING SECURITY OF ADMIN IS PRIORITY.

Finch shakes his head. This isn't the way things should be. He remembers Reese's words from earlier and the pulse of fear they put under his skin; it's so much worse seeing the truth painted across his computer screen. They can't do this without him. The world's most advanced artificial intelligence and it's most human enforcer have both declared their unwillingness to continue at the loss of scared little Harold Finch. 

It's ridiculous. Finch is weak and frail. An hour ago, having a gun barrel in his face turned his brain white. He had trembled beneath Reese's hands on the brink of tears. They deserve better than to be chained to a coward like him. He has already failed in so many ways, is so depressingly weak. Harold Finch should not be anyone's priority. 

Finch sets his fingers on the keys. "Tell me where he is. Right now."

The Machine hesitates, and at last gives up the address of a cash-only motel on the south side that he and Reese have used on occasion. Finch adds it to his phone and stands. "I'll be all right," he says awkwardly, as if reassuring a child. "I'm taking the dog."

By the time Finch reaches the motel, he's left Reese and Keller alone for nearly forty-five minutes. He's not sure what he expects to find or if there'll be anything left of the man that attacked him. He leaves Bear in the car and limps to the only occupied unit. "Mr. Reese?" he calls before knocking, because he knows that not identifying himself first might get him a gun barrel in the face, and he can't take that now.

Someone moves inside the motel room, and Finch is sure he can hear a man's strained groan inside. He manages to gather his composure well enough, but then the door opens and Reese slips outside. He isn't ready.

Reese has shed his jacket. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and there's blood on his collar and under his fingernails. It's not the worst Finch has seen him, by far--none of the blood is his, and there's no sign of any defensive bruise whatsoever. He's as tall and lethal as ever.

"I told you to trust me," says Reese.

Finch tries to reply and can't. He's too busy staring at the man before him. Reese's eyes are bright and wild, his jaw tense like a predator called off his meal. This is the animal he was made into by men and women he once trusted, the animal Finch needs him to be now. Because Reese can be anything, if there's a need for it. He can be the charming hero, the gentle and compassionate caretaker, the beast. For Finch he's been all those things, sometimes so starkly juxtaposed that Finch can't tell which is the most genuine, if any of them are. Is it the real John Reese that brushed five shy fingers over Finch's temple back in the library? Or is this John Reese at his most primal now? Does it even matter?

"I'm sorry," Finch whispers before he knows the words are even on his tongue.

He's sorry because he knows that whatever John Reese is now, it's because of _him_ , and Reese deserves better. In his selfishness he has made himself priority--he, who panics at the sight of a gun, who has played God with men's lives and wielded his morality like a cudgel when it suited him. He, Harold Finch, the restless and insignificant little bird, shouldn't have the power to render a great man "not effective" just by being absent. It terrifies him that so much rests on him when he is so unworthy.

No man should have to be a murderer for his sake.

"I'm sorry," Finch says again, because he doesn't know what else to say. Regret threads through the pins in his spine and leaves him shaking. "I'm sorry."

Reese just stares for a moment, confused, but because he's John Reese he understands soon enough. He takes a step forward and draws Finch into his arms. He's strong, and warm, and Finch tries to think about that more than the bloodstains on his collar. As they sink into each other Finch clutches at Reese's shirt, wishing he could bury himself. _I'm not effective without you, either_ , he wants to say. _I don't know if I could even begin to do this without you._ He wants to believe that they're both just as dependent and desperate and hopeless, but he's the one that's shaking. He's the one that has trouble breathing.

"Do you want to go?" Reese asks close to his ear. Finch nods against his shoulder, so he eases them apart. "Give me one minute."

Reese ducks back into the motel. Finch doesn't try to peer inside. He can hear movement, and something that sounds like a man's pained voice, and then a slither of metal on metal. Part of Finch wishes he could just go back to the car and stroke Bear's neck until it's over, but there's blood there, too. Everything he's put his hands on has become lethal. So he stands very still, listening to the voice inside pitch and strain. When he closes his eyes it's as easy to imagine as the hundred other scenarios he's envisioned for Reese. The leather gloves crinkling around Reese's knuckles, the cold slant of Reese's eyes as he takes in his now helpless victim. The man with dark whiskers begging for his life.

He ought to be in there, seeing for himself and taking responsibility. But Reese is still eager to pretend there's a difference between them, that it even matters which of them pulls the trigger when they're both behind the gun, so Finch lets him keep that. For now, it's the only thing he _can_ do for Reese. He doesn't move.

There's a percussion from inside the motel room that can only be a silenced nine millimeter. Finch starts, but he doesn't even have the time to go cold--Reese is already outside in his jacket and coat, leading him away from the building. "I'm taking you back to the library," says Reese. Finch only nods.

They get in Finch's car, but Reese drives them back. "Martin Keller used to work for Elias," he says, giving Finch goose bumps. "Elias has always known you as Finch, since the first time we met." His lips twist downward. "I've been careless, using that name in front of other people. Apparently, in the beginning, Elias thought I would be a free agent if only he could get rid of my 'boss.' He spread your name to his boys."

Finch shrinks into the passenger seat. "But Martin Keller doesn't work for Elias now."

"No. After Elias was brought in, some of his boys decided to jump ship. Keller and his friends have been looking for a way to get on HR's good side. They found you."

Finch takes in a deep breath, holds it, lets it out. "I suppose that means I can't go by 'Finch' anymore."

Reese stays quiet for the rest of the drive.

When they reach the library Reese gets out first and helps Finch out of the passenger door, but it's clear from his body language that he's not coming inside. "Keller claims he didn't tell anyone else about you," he says. "He and his crew were hoping to get all the glory themselves. I don't think he even told Simmons."

"You believed him?"

Reese blinks. "I believe he wasn't capable of lying to me by the time he said it."

Finch grips Bear's leash in the hopes that he won't become nauseous. "What about his accomplices?"

Reese starts to answer, but his phone rings. Upon seeing the number he puts it on speaker, and a series of words and letters is recited in varying computerized voices. Finch stares, but today has already been impossible, and he can't work up surprise anymore. "Looks like you'll be coming up for a while, at least," he says.

Reese tucks the phone away. As he watches Finch a look of guilt crosses those glossy blue eyes of his and Finch has to look away. "I know how you feel about this, Harold," he says. "But--"

"I understand." Finch takes another a deep breath and turns toward the library. "It's what we both signed up for."

Finch solves the two numbers, and then Reese leaves again. This time he leaves his GPS and earpiece on. Finch waits in the dark of the library, listening to Reese's breath rise and pitch with the hunt. He sits back and doesn't have to lift a finger as Reese handles the remaining breach. No one calling him Finch will try to kill him again. He feels a deep and almost morbid satisfaction that he doesn't have to give up Harold Finch.

Because Finch is the name he made for Reese. 


End file.
